All You Need Is Wisdom
by Mandelene
Summary: Millions of wisdom teeth are extracted each year, and Matthew's third molars aren't an exception. It's just another part of becoming an adult, but there's one problem—Matthew's not ready for adulthood.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note** : This request was submitted by an anon on my Tumblr. It's going to be a two-shot. Also, just a word of warning that there are mentions of blood and other occasional grossness, so brace yourselves before enjoying!

* * *

The worst thing a person could do is grow old, which is why Matthew intends to stay nineteen forever. He knows as soon as he gets through college, he'll have to fling himself into the adult world of taxes, debt, miserable jobs, and jump-starting his non-existent career goals. The secure cocoon of undergraduate studies and living under his parents' roof will be a thing of the past.

Unfortunately for him, his body is already beginning to turn against him with age. First it starts as a little aching twinge on the side of his jaw that comes and goes. Then, within two months, it escalates into a throbbing pulsation that makes chewing his food a chore. It's finally happening, he's reaching a rite of passage that he never wished to have the displeasure of experiencing—his wisdom teeth hurt.

He manages to keep it to himself for an impressive amount of time, but when he lets a few winces and grimaces slip during breakfast and dinner, both Dad and Papa catch on, not needing an explanation. That same week, Dad takes him down to his office in the city, and Matthew suffers through an x-ray of his mouth before being given the worst possible news—all four of his wisdom teeth are impacted and will need to be extracted.

He goes home, locks himself in his room, and proceeds to sulk. He's officially an old person. Alfred has never had an issue with his wisdom teeth, so why should he be the unlucky one? Maybe the pain will go away on its own. Maybe there's another option. Maybe—

"Mathieu? Open the door, please."

"I'm busy, Papa."

"Too busy for me?"

"Yes."

A second or two of silence pass before Papa tries again. "It's not the end of the world, Mathieu. They're only wisdom teeth. If your father said they have to be removed, then they need to be removed. It's for your own health."

If Alfred weren't off studying computer science in California, he'd be here, laughing at Matthew's predicament and teasing him relentlessly.

"But you never had to have your wisdom teeth removed."

" _Non_ , but your father has removed hundreds of wisdom teeth by this point, and he knows what he's doing."

Matthew hugs a pillow to his chest and frowns. He knows he's being a big baby about this, but his teeth are a big deal to him. He brushes twice a day and flosses after every meal, and still, he has to deal with such dental horrors. Where's the justice? It doesn't help that his father is a dentist with a specialization in oral surgery and is a stickler for dental hygiene.

"It'll be done on Thursday afternoon. You'll skip your Friday class and have the weekend to recover," Papa informs pressingly, emphasizing the importance and inevitability of getting the procedure done.

"But can't I just—?"

"It will be okay, _mon cher_."

And that's the end of the discussion. Thursday afternoon comes far too quickly. Papa picks him up after class and drives him to Dad's office before dropping him off in the waiting room. He has some important errands to run and can't stay, but he promises Matthew over and over again that there's no need to worry—that Dad will take perfectly good care of him.

Unsurprisingly, he's scheduled to be the last patient of the day, but he doesn't have to wait very long for Dad to come and fetch him. Matthew wishes he'd had more time to mentally prepare, but before he knows it, Dad's standing in the hallway and calling him over, causing his heart to stutter with paralyzing fear. He trusts his father. He knows he has plenty of experience with these types of procedures, and yet, he is still uneasy about the whole idea. He has heard too many horror stories around the kitchen table, and he's been reading too many online articles about all of the possible complications of tooth extractions, and, oh God, what if he gets permanent nerve damage or dry socket?

"Matthew?"

"C-Coming," he mumbles, forcing himself to stand up on noodle-like legs. He should have gone away for college, then he could've avoided any and all contact with dentists of any sort, family or not.

Dad puts a hand on his back as he approaches and guides him into one of the small exam rooms. Without having to be instructed to do so, Matthew reluctantly sits on the teal leather chair in the center, trembling slightly. He hates having to get any kind of dental work done. It's absolutely emotionally draining and awful.

"Oh, Matthew, my boy, don't be so nervous. Everything is going to be fine," Dad promises, noticing his heightened anxiety. "I'll get you some nitrous oxide."

"No!" Matthew immediately shouts, throat dry.

"It'll help relax you."

"No, I don't want to be loopy afterward."

"But it'll make you feel better," Dad reasons softly, putting a calming hand on Matthew's knee to stop his jitters.

"No, because I'll say something stupid, and you'll record it and upload it online since that's a trendy thing to do nowadays."

Dad chuckles and shakes his head in disbelief. "You really think I'd do that? I'm sensing a lack of trust here."

"I don't want any laughing gas," Matthew states firmly, mind made up.

"All right, love. If that's what you'd prefer, I won't insist otherwise," Dad relents before clipping the oh-so-terrible peppermint colored paper bib around his neck. "Just relax. You know I don't bite."

"Hmph…"

Dad frowns and leans Matthew's chair back, reclining him. "I know you're upset with me for putting you through this, but you'll feel much better in the long run. Most people have to get their wisdom teeth removed at some point, and if you're having trouble with them now, it's best to have them taken out as early as possible before the roots grow stronger and raise the possibility of more complications… Are you certain you wouldn't like any medication to ease your nerves?"

"I'm sure."

"Okay, tilt your chin up and open wide. I just want to have a look and put some numbing gel on your gums before I give you the novocaine injection. It'll taste funny."

Matthew swallows thickly and lets his mouth fall obediently open, loathing every passing second with more vigor than the previous one. There are some sterilized instruments on a silver tray next to him, but they're tactfully covered with a paper towel so he can't make out the details of the torture devices. Why does this kind of stuff always happen to him? Why couldn't he have one or even two impacted teeth instead of four?

Dad smears the sticky gel over his gums with a cotton swab and lets it sit in place for a while, so it can take effect. Then, as they wait, Dad jumps into a tangent about how they need to spend some time together as a family when spring break rolls around, and how maybe when Alfred gets back, they can take a road trip out west for old time's sake or head up north to stay in a log cabin and enjoy the outdoors. Matthew only hears half of what is being said to him, but Dad doesn't seem to mind, nor does he expect a more eloquent response aside from an occasional hum or "uh-huh" every now and then. He's just talking for the sake of making noise, and Matthew appreciates it. It's surprisingly soothing.

Then, the cotton swab is taken out from where it has been dangling from his mouth and Dad says, "All right, I'm going to give you the novocaine now. It might pinch a bit. It'll be in five places."

Five shots? Has he lost his mind?

But Matthew's not the expert here, and so, he claws at the armrests of the chair and resigns himself to his fate, taking a deep breath to calm himself. Dad takes a moment to give his shoulder a comforting squeeze before getting to work.

"Just close your eyes and try to relax, poppet. You'll be okay."

He tries, but it's hard to focus on anything else besides the needle in his mouth. Thankfully, it's not so bad because before Matthew can register the pain in his mind, Dad's already prodding him in a different spot. Four shots go by quickly and with relative ease, but on the last one, Dad pauses and adds, "The fifth one is going to go in the roof of your mouth, and it tends to smart a bit, but I'll try to make it as quick as possible. It'll feel odd."

Odd is not the word choice Matthew wants to hear, and despite the warning, he still lets out an involuntary whimper and flinches when a sudden stinging sensation blazes to life in his mouth. It's over in under five seconds, and as soon as the syringe has been set aside, Dad rubs his arm soothingly and apologizes, guilt clearly inscribed in his features.

"The worst part is over with, I promise. Now you shouldn't feel a thing. I'm going to let you rest for a few minutes to let the medicine start doing its job. Your face and lips might feel funny, but don't be alarmed. When you're completely numb, we'll get started, okay?"

Matthew nods his head to show he understands. Already, his bottom lip is going numb and his tongue feels heavy. He leans further into the chair and tries to keep from drooling on himself to no avail. It's a little embarrassing, but Dad has seen him in worse conditions.

Dad hands him a few tissues so he can wipe his mouth, and Matthew feels like a baby that can't stop spitting up on itself. His cheeks lose feeling next, and then, his whole mouth turns warm and tingly, giving him the sudden urge to take a nap.

"How are you feeling? Is the novocaine working?"

He tries to say yes, but it comes out as a nonsensical jumble of sound, and so, he merely nods his head again.

"Good. We'll give it another five minutes."

"Mmm…"

More saliva dribbles out of his mouth, and he has to dab at it with the tissues. How gross. Dad, however, is unfazed. His father steps out for a minute to tell the assistant to come in to give him a hand, and by the time he comes back, Matthew has completely lost all feeling from his lower jaw up to his cheekbones.

"Nice and numb?" Dad asks.

"Mmmrgh…"

"I'm going to use one of my instruments here. Let me know if you feel any pain at all."

He feels a pressing sensation against his teeth, but it's not painful, thank goodness.

"No pain?"

"Nrghh."

"Excellent. You're doing swimmingly, Matthew," Dad praises as he puts some kind of rubber apparatus between his teeth to hold his mouth open. "You just let me know if you're in any pain at all during any point. Just poke my arm, and I'll give you more numbing medication. Now, try to hold still and keep your chin up."

Matthew is incredibly happy he can't see what's happening because he's sure he'd be mortified if he could. A number of tools are put into his mouth and taken out again, and he has no idea what any of them are doing because he can't even feel them. Before he knows it, the first tooth is out, the one on the top right. He doesn't feel it getting taken out, nor does he feel the sutures being put in to close the wound.

"Twenty-five percent done, Matthew. Turn your head toward me and relax."

The bottom teeth are not as simple, since they are rooted more deeply in his jaw, and Dad bides his time with them, careful not to use too much force. He works quietly and gently for fifteen minutes, loosening the tooth by teasing it back and forth. Then, suddenly, there's a startling cracking noise that makes Matthew jerk in fright, but Dad places a reassuring hand on his chest to keep him still and says, "Don't be scared by any of the sounds. You're all right. Fifty percent done… Keep your eyes closed."

Maybe he _should_ have accepted some laughing gas. Then, he would've been too woozy to hear the horrible noises.

The top left tooth is taken out as easily as the first, and Matthew wouldn't have even known it was already removed had Dad not announced, "One more left, poppet."

The last one takes the longest. It requires a whole lot of patience and tugging. For a moment, Matthew begins to worry it's not going to come out at all, but Dad isn't as quick to quit.

"Your wisdom teeth enjoy being in your mouth very much," Dad jokes gently, and finally, there's another little cracking noise that sounds much worse than it really is, and the last of the sutures are threaded through his gums.

The assistant rolls some fluffy gauze up and puts a nice helping in both sides of his mouth before telling him to carefully bite down to aid in stanching the bleeding. When that's taken care of, Dad helps him up and gives him an ice-pack to place on his jaw. He's supposed to alternate it between sides every ten minutes. Matthew can't believe he survived.

"That wasn't so bad, hmm?" Dad asks, not expecting Matthew to give a clear response, since he clearly won't be talking any time soon. "It's very important that you let the area heal and don't touch it with your tongue. Sit in the waiting room, and I'll be out in a moment to take us home."

All right, nothing hurts yet, so that's good. It's over with. He can't believe he actually made it through without passing out or thrashing around in a fit of panic. There's no turning back now, and all he has to do is make it through the next few days and never worry about his wisdom teeth ever again. Of course, there's still the possibility of some kind of post-op complication, but he's forcing himself not to consider the thought, choosing instead to focus on the cold sensation of the ice-pack stamped against his jaw. He wants to go directly home so he can collapse in bed and sleep for however long his recovery will take.

Dad tidies up, grabs his stuff, and then they're on their way. Matthew's vaguely aware of the taste of blood in his mouth as he gets into the car, but he's not as panicked by the revelation as he thought he might be. He's still drooling on himself a little, and now his spit is unnaturally pink. To say it's scary is an understatement, but Matthew just wipes his mouth with more tissues and keeps his gaze locked on the road to distract himself. He wants to ask Dad if it's normal to be bleeding like this, but it's impossible for him to talk coherently through all of the gauze in his mouth and the numbness.

He picks up his phone and decides to type out the question instead, holding it up to Dad's face once they're at a red light. His mouth is a Niagara Falls of disgusting bodily fluids.

Dad glances at the message and assures, "There'll be some bleeding for another hour or so. The local anesthetic should be wearing off soon. We're going to have to stop by the pharmacy for a moment to get your medications. Will you be okay waiting in the car for a few minutes?"

"Mmm," Matthew hums with a tiny nod of the head. He's beginning to get a bit of a migraine. He takes a selfie of himself and sends it to Papa and Alfred, hoping to garner some sympathy from them both. His face has already swelled up quite noticeably, and there's some pale bruising forming on both sides of his lower jaw.

The car comes to a stop, and Dad cuts the engine before hopping out. "Don't move, my boy. I'll be back in a moment. Text me if there's an emergency."

"Mmm-hmm."

He can already tell he's going to have a rough time once the numbness subsides. The gauze in his mouth is uncomfortable, the swelling is making him feel gross, and not being able to talk is an additional nuisance. He's crabby, and that's probably a side effect of having your teeth forcibly yanked out. He reminds himself not to give Dad or Papa a hard time, but he's not sure how long he'll be able to keep his temper in check. He's not one to get angry very often, but when he's sick, he can be fairly unapproachable and sour. Hopefully, his parents are prepared for this.

Dad returns in ten minutes with a paper bag filled with the promised painkillers and a bottle of antibiotics. They're all labeled with Matthew's name, and he takes the bag from Dad, scrutinizing the pills.

He texts out another question, " _Why do I need to take antibiotics? Do I have an infection?_ "

Dad shakes his head. "No, it's prophylactic—which means you need to take them as a preventative measure. It's a weak dose of clindamycin. You'll be taking that every six hours for a week."

Oh. Fair enough, Matthew supposes. He rests his head on the cool window and sighs, beginning to get some feeling back in his lips, which isn't necessarily a good thing. He'd prefer to stay numb for as long as possible.

They pull up into the driveway of the house, and Dad helps him out of the car, even though Matthew can walk perfectly fine. Honestly, there's no need for all of the fussing. He wasn't drugged up with laughing gas, so he's alert and cognizant of everything around him. He walks himself through the front door, takes off his shoes, changes into a pair of sweatpants, and lies down on the couch, intending to watch some T.V or play a video game.

Dad puts a stack of pillows under his head and stresses the importance of keeping his head elevated to reduce the swelling in his face.

"Your gauze needs to be replaced, so I'll take out the old one. You can have a few sips of water and take the pain medication before I put a new one in," Dad announces, but Matthew honestly just wants to be left alone and couldn't care less.

He watches Dad put on a pair of gloves, and then he's poking around his mouth again.

"Close your eyes."

Matthew wants to ask why, but he already knows the answer his own question. Dad doesn't want him to get lightheaded at the sight of what is most likely blood-soaked gauze. It's probably also why he won't let Matthew take it out himself. Admittedly, he has a history of being squeamish, so he can't blame Dad for taking the extra precautions.

The novocaine is wearing off quickly now, and Matthew has to grimace when a sharp shock of pain jolts up from his chin and spreads outward in both directions, almost reaching his ears. Now that he has regained some feeling and the gauze is out, he can attempt talking, although his voice sounds a little funny. He's never going to forgive his father for putting him through this. "Oww…"

"I know, poppet. It's not pleasant," Dad soothes before handing him a chilled glass of water. "You need to stay hydrated. You should also probably eat something before you take the medication. Would you like some pudding or applesauce?"

"Applesauce."

Dad speed walks to the kitchen and returns with a small cup of applesauce and a spoon, promptly handing over the food to Matthew. "Slowly, now. Take your time."

He doesn't realize how hungry he is until he gets halfway through the cup and devours the rest of it, feeling a little better. Then, as soon as he finishes the final spoonful, Dad hands him a pill and he downs it with the help of the water, groaning at the growing feeling of discomfort and soreness in his mouth. It's a throbbing pain that won't go away. He has the urge to massage his face, but he knows he's not supposed to touch anything for the at least twenty-four hours.

Dad helps him out by holding a fresh ice-pack up to one of his cheeks while Matthew holds another one on the opposite side. This really sucks. He's not even feeling up for playing a video game. It's too much work, and so, he settles for watching a movie that Dad puts on instead, letting out little complaints every now and then as the pain rages on, unabated. He drops his stack of pillows in Dad's lap and lies down on top of him, feeling clingy. He doesn't care if he's nineteen and should be able to be a grown-up about this. Right now he's feeling terrible and needs someone nearby.

"The pain medicine should start working soon," Dad promises, stroking his hair, not minding Matthew's neediness, "and Papa will be back from the store any minute."

"Okay…"

"Is the pain getting any better?"

"A little."

Dad continues petting his head, and as the storyline of the movie progresses, Matthew finds himself getting sleepier and more dazed. Within half an hour, he's so exhausted his eyelids are drooping against his will, and then, without his consent, he nods off.

* * *

"My poor _cher_. I'll get to work on some soup for him. Four teeth at once! That's enough to tire anyone out!"

"He's going to feel strange from the pain medication, so we need to keep an eye on him."

Matthew's eyes flutter open, and he's greeted by the sight of the dimly lit living room. The television is quietly buzzing away in the background, and he's still on the couch, except someone has put a blanket over him and readjusted his pillows. The pain from before is gone, and he's actually feeling a lot better already. Who would've thought getting one's wisdom teeth removed could be so easy? Why was he so worried about it in the first place? He's feeling totally fine aside from some swelling and a bad taste in his mouth.

He swings his legs over the side of the couch and tries to stand. The key verb here is "try."

As soon as he's up, the world tilts sharply and violently to the right, and he has to grab the arm of the couch to keep from toppling over.

Oh, wow. Okay, so maybe he's not totally fine after all. He's standing still, and yet it feels like he's on a boat that's rocking back and forth in the middle of the ocean. His vision is swimming, and everything is a little softer around the edges, almost like he's dreaming. He continues bracing himself against the couch and manages to shuffle over to the doorway of the kitchen.

His appearance startles both Dad and Papa thoroughly. Papa stops unpacking the groceries to gawk at him, and Dad sweeps right on over to wrap an arm around his waist and steady him.

"You shouldn't be up, love. You need to rest," Dad explains calmly, gently guiding Matthew back into the living room. "The medicine is going to make you very dizzy."

"I feel drunk," Matthew mumbles, and he hears both Dad and Papa exchange a quiet laugh.

"And how would you know what that feels like?" Dad asks teasingly before sitting Matthew down on the couch again. "If you need to get up to use the bathroom, Papa or I will help you walk, okay? At least we know the pain medication is working."

His head stops spinning as soon as he's at rest once more. "How long do I have to stay lying down for?" he murmurs, voice sounding muffled from all of the swelling.

"At least until tomorrow. Longer if you end up needing another dose of painkillers."

"Okay… I feel like laughing, even though this isn't funny," Matthew says with a slack smile. The world is so snuggly, and all he wants to do is cuddle everything in sight, immaculately content. For some reason, his body decides it's going to stand up again, and he sways slightly, leaning dangerously forward.

Fortunately, Dad catches him and Papa arrives to offer double the assistance. Together, they lower him onto the couch and successfully manage to get him to lie down properly. Matthew doesn't put up a struggle, but his legs are antsy and want to move.

"Shut your eyes and try to go back to sleep, poppet."

"Listen to your father, Mathieu. You need your rest. We'll be right here to take care of you when you wake up," Papa murmurs warmly, brushing his bangs aside. "You'll feel better soon."

His parents' words are like honey, sweet and pulling him down into a sugar-coated dream-like state. He lets out a happy sigh and feels a fuzzy blanket being tucked around him, sinking against the lovely softness. He's completely and utterly wonderful. Never been better. Everything is warm, bright, and perfect. So perfect.

"That's some strong pain medication, isn't it?" he hears Papa say distantly.

"Yes, but I'll downgrade him to ibuprofen tomorrow. The first day is the worst. He won't have to be as heavily medicated soon."

"He's so cute. I should take a picture."

"No, don't embarrass him."

"It'll just be between us, Arthur. He won't have to know."

"I want no part in this."

"My poor, little _chou_. When did he grow up to be a young man? He's supposed to stay with his papa forever."

"And you have the nerve to call _me_ a mother hen."

"I'm going to stay here with him for a while, in case he needs something."

"You're smothering him."

"How can I not when he's like this?"

"You're impossible. I'll be upstairs. Call me if I'm needed."

And then, Matthew slips into another nap, still smiling against his will.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thanks again to the anon who submitted this request! Here's the last part (and most of you knew where I was going with this, haha)!

* * *

It's some time into the night when Matthew registers the cool solitude of the darkness that has now taken over the living room. Dad and Papa are peeling him off the couch and setting him upright, urging him to use his legs even though they're jelly underneath his weight. The world is still off-kilter, leaning on a sharp axis that makes him want to be sick.

"Come now, Matthew. Let's get you into bed so you can have a proper rest," Dad coaxes, escorting him toward the stairs.

Matthew doesn't think he's ever been this disoriented and groggy before. Papa is bracing his left side while Dad has a grip on his right, and somehow, although it's like a three-legged race, they manage to get him safely up the stairs and into his bedroom.

"That's it," Dad commends, lowering him into his bed with great care. "We'll let you sleep now. Should you need anything at all during the night, just give us a shout."

"Ugh," Matthew responds, feeling as though he's hovering a few inches above the bed. Everything feels all—floaty, but is that even a real word? Hah… Floaty.

"Arthur, we can't leave him alone like this. He could fall out of bed without realizing it," Papa remarks worriedly, tracing his fingers over Matthew's forehead and trying to see beyond his delirious gaze.

"He won't. I'll stay with him until he falls asleep again."

Matthew parts his chapped lips and manages to mumble, "I'm fine, guys."

The gauze has been removed from his mouth without him knowing. He must've stopped bleeding.

Dad and Papa each take their turns giving him a dubious look, not believing a single word he says. They tuck him in once more, fluff his pillows, and wish him a goodnight, though it's unlikely to be anything of the sort.

"Stay in bed until we say you can do otherwise," Dad instructs, picking lint off of Matthew's comforter.

"Okay…"

"Go back to sleep, _mon lapin_."

Matthew's brain doesn't need convincing. He rolls over onto his side, curls his knees up to his chest, and drifts off almost instantly, thinking of all of the funny words that might describe how he feels right now. One moment he feels light as a feather, and, in the next, it's like the atmosphere is pressing hard against his face, oppressive and hot. He dreams of clouds and stars and being trapped in an infinite galaxy with infinite doors leading to infinite destinations. He pulls one door open, sees a tree of knowledge and takes a bite of an apple, only to discover he's lost all his teeth. He drops the apple and screams but no one is around to hear.

* * *

So, this is what it's like to be hungover.

Matthew wakes up with a profound headache, and he's surprised his skull hasn't exploded and broken into little bits and pieces yet. This is exactly why he doesn't go to college parties—they're too hardcore for his body to handle. He'll leave the wild night life to the students who have built up their tolerance for such things.

He's also nauseous. It's only a small discomfort, but combined with the headache and the renewed throbbing of his mouth, it's enough to make him wholeheartedly miserable. The pain circulating around his teeth is constant, and as he stares up the ceiling, he debates whether or not he'd be justified in waking Dad and Papa up. It's only six o'clock in the morning, and he's fairly sure Papa has work today even though Dad has taken the day off.

He tests each of his limbs in turn and decides to be a little rebellious by trying to stand on his own again. Surely, the meds have worn off by now if he's in pain again. He holds onto the corner of his desk just to be safe, and staggers onto his feet. A few seconds pass, and miraculously, he's not dizzy or loopy in the slightest.

He makes it out into the hallway and realizes he's pretty thirsty and could go for a drink of water. Now that his legs are back to their normal state, he ventures down the stairs successfully and reaches the kitchen. Some cold water is enough to make the pain in his mouth marginally less agonizing, and he sits down by the table and takes a deep breath, listening to the singing birds outside and the children in the neighborhood getting ready to leave for school.

Speaking of school, he's going to have to get the lecture notes from someone for his English composition class. The last thing he wants is for his GPA to suffer because of some stupid wisdom teeth.

He yawns and considers the possibility of going back to bed for another few hours. This whole predicament has been messing with his sleep cycle, but he doesn't think he'll be able to doze off again with the amount of pain sloshing around his gums.

He rises from the table, starts heading back upstairs, and, abruptly, he stumbles and has to lean against the wall, feeling shaky and unstable again. Maybe the medicine didn't fully wear off after all.

"Matthew?" Dad asks, catching him lurking in the hallway. He's sluggish himself and squinting against the early morning sunlight. "What are you doing out of bed?"

"Good morning," Matthew replies with a strained smile, face hurting. "I was just getting a drink of water."

The stern look in Dad's eyes makes him feel small. "You should have called me."

"I'm all right, though."

"No, you're not. You haven't had anything to eat since the applesauce from yesterday, and I don't want you wandering about the house until you've gained some strength back," Dad reasons before putting a hand on his back and marching him back to his room. "I'll bring you up some breakfast. How's the pain on a scale of one to ten?"

Ahh, it's the question Matthew has heard a million times. It's one of the first questions all medical professionals are required to parrot at everyone. He touches one of his swollen cheeks, thinks for a moment, and says, "Seven."

Dad clicks his tongue, more out of concern than anger. "You should have woken me up. Go to bed. I'll be back soon. I'll bring some ice as well."

Knowing better than to argue with his father when it comes to issues regarding his health, Matthew surrenders and heads back to bed, doing a little bit of light reading to help him ignore the pain. However, his headache isn't doing him any favors, and soon, he has to set the book aside and merely stare at the opposite wall, hating his father more and more for doing this to him. He knows Dad meant well and just wanted to help, but God, this hurts. Being a dentist must be one of the most unrewarding jobs ever. All of your patients have to feign gratitude when in actuality, they want to scream and demand the money they spent on the insurance co-payments back.

At least it's a one-time deal. Wisdom teeth have the decency to be like chickenpox—you suffer once and try to erase them from your memory for the remainder of your life.

Not to be melodramatic or anything, but he may very well be dying. One glance at his reflection in his phone reveals that he looks like he got into a bad bar fight, and Matthew's sure if he even so much as steps out onto the driveway, the police will be around to ask him what happened.

"Breakfast is served," Dad announces brightly, pushing the door open with his foot as he walks in with a tray of food.

Well, it's not exactly food.

Matthew frowns at the bowl of mashed bananas and oatmeal that Dad offers him. This is probably what he's going to be eating every day if he ever turns eighty-five. The thought makes him cringe.

"Eat as much as you can. I know you probably don't have much of an appetite, but you need some nutrients."

Where's Papa when he needs him? He's the only one who can save him from this bland and mushy monstrosity.

Dad leaves two icepacks, a glass of water, and two pills out that he shakes out of a medicine bottle on the nightstand. "Eat as much as you can and take those pain relievers. It's ibuprofen, but if you're still in pain an hour from now, I'll give you the stronger narcotic again. Oh, and you'll need to take your antibiotic as well."

"I don't want to be drunk ever again," Matthew moans grumpily, and Dad chuckles before patting his back.

After making a commendable effort, Matthew swallows a little more than half of the pureed banana-oatmeal concoction and takes the maximum dose of ibuprofen that Dad has left out for him along with the antibiotic. He gently touches his face and realizes both of his cheeks are still swollen and gross. Everything is as sore as it was yesterday, and the pain comes in constant throbs, pounding over and over again like a pulse.

He's done nothing but rest, and yet, he's inexplicably tired. He rests his eyes for a moment, which turns into five minutes, followed by an hour. He naps for quite a while until Dad comes up again to check on him. Papa must have just left for work because he can hear the front door closing downstairs.

Matthew rolls over onto his back and groans, one hand on his stomach. The mix of medications and his frugal breakfast are not sitting well with him.

Dad feels his forehead, checks over the swelling running along his jaw, and says, "Everything is as it should be for now."

"I'm nauseous."

"That's the antibiotic, most likely. I'll bring you some sparkling water. Is there anything else I can get you?"

"A baseball bat to beat me over the head with," Matthew jokes darkly, sitting up. He's sick of being in bed. Time to migrate to the living room again. He's steadier and not as likely to trip over his own feet after having had some breakfast. He climbs down the stairs under Dad's watchful supervision and throws himself onto the middle of the couch, a little agitated with himself for being so useless and unproductive today. He has trouble convincing himself he has earned the right to be lazy for a few days.

He turns on the TV and watches the local news for a while. Dad's phone rings during the weather update, and for some reason, his father's not too happy about it.

"I told him I'd call him in fifteen minutes. Impatient as ever," Dad grumbles, pulling his cellphone out of his pocket with a long sigh before answering the call. "Yes, Alfred? I was about to—as I've already told you a dozen times, he's fine. He doesn't have much of an appetite, but that's to be expected… Yes, I _know_. Alfred, Matthew isn't my first patient, you don't have to—oh, _of course_ you trust the bloody Internet forums more than a _licensed professional_. Everything is under control here… Yes, I gave him pain medication… Some discomfort is normal. If you won't trust my word, why don't you speak to him yourself?"

Dad huffs and holds out his phone to Matthew, as exasperated as he always is when he's stuck trying to reason with Alfred.

Matthew takes the phone away before Dad gets inconsolably irate, and manages a soft, "Hey, Al."

"Mattie, my dude! How're ya feeling? I saw the pic you sent, and I already yelled at Dad first thing in the morning. He says you'll be okay in a couple more days, but that's what he's supposed to say."

"He's right, Al, I'm fine."

"No, you're not. I can hear it in your voice, bro. You're still feelin' cruddy, but no worries, I'm getting on my flight in a little bit, and I'll be there as soon as—"

"What?" Matthew cuts him off, taken aback. "You don't have to do that, Alfred. Honestly, I just need to sleep this off and—"

"Nuh-uh, don't try to talk me out of it now. I'm on my way, so hang tight, 'kay? Your big bro is coming to the rescue."

"We're the same age."

"Nah, I'm definitely a few minutes older than you. Rest up and don't let Dad come near you until I get there, okay?"

Matthew laughs weakly and rolls his eyes. "He's taking good care of me, I promise."

"Yeah, well, he can't be trusted sometimes. You know how it is. Let me talk to Dad again for a second," Alfred commands, and Matthew hands the phone back to Dad with a wan look, holding his breath as he waits for how his father is going to respond to this new development.

"You're _what_? Oh, I see, so when your papa and I politely ask you to come and visit us for the weekend every now and then, you claim you don't have time and have to study, but now your schedule is suddenly clear?" Dad fumes, but the ire in his voice has sufficiently been diffused. Matthew can tell there's a part of his father that's proud of Alfred for being so overdramatic and protective. "All right... In that case, do you need me to pick you up from the airport?"

"No!" Matthew hears Alfred shout urgently in response. "Don't leave Mattie's side. I'll get a cab."

"Very well, my boy. Have a safe trip and call me as soon as you land, am I understood?"

The conversation ends there, and when Dad puts his cellphone down, he mumbles under his breath about how he'll never understand today's youth. Still, there's a hint of a smile on his face because he hasn't seen Alfred in months, and though he tries his hardest to seem all tough and resistant about the boy being gone, Matthew knows Dad has missed him terribly. Their family unit isn't the same without Alfred, and it's about time they had a reunion, no matter how brief.

Content with how things are shaping up, Matthew binge watches an entire season of some mystery/thriller show and lets time pass him by, eager for his mouth to finally pull itself together and function like a mouth is supposed to. He nibbles on some more applesauce and spoons a small bowl of chicken broth between his lips for lunch, humming in relief at the soothing sensation that the mildly warm soup brings to his inflamed gums. Meanwhile, Dad deals with a few household chores before settling into an armchair to read. He glances over at Matthew every few minutes, assessing his condition from afar before directing his attention back to his book.

"Soon it'll be twenty-four hours since the procedure, and you'll be able to start rinsing your mouth with warm saltwater every six hours," Dad says from behind his novel, turning over a page.

"Why so often?" Matthew asks feebly. His father wants too much from him.

"We need to keep the area clean, and it'll help the swelling go down," Dad explains, checking his watch.

"Can I brush my teeth, too? My mouth feels gross."

"Not yet, all right? Let's give it a bit more time. I don't want you disturbing the clots or else you'll start bleeding again and prolong the recovery."

"Ugh, spare me the details, please."

"My apologies," Dad smiles sympathetically. "I often forget that tooth extraction isn't a commonplace discussion to have."

Matthew turns back to his TV show, and when the clock on the wall reveals that it's already after four in the afternoon a little while later, he gets ushered into the bathroom and gently rinses his mouth with the help the aforementioned tall glass of saltwater. Dad watches to make sure he does it right, and although the taste of the overly salty water is a bit nauseating at first, Matthew adjusts to it pretty quickly, and it isn't as bad as he thought it might be. Admittedly, it calms some of the soreness and pain, and Matthew's mouth feels a little cleaner and better overall.

It's almost dinnertime when they're interrupted by a pounding knock on the door, and Dad rushes to answer it, revealing a grinning, jovial Alfred standing on the doorstep with a small bag of luggage.

"Hey, old man," Alfred greets Dad cheekily, snickering when his shoulder gets swatted as a result.

Dad frowns up at him because, my goodness, when did Alfred get so tall? He pulls the young man into a stiff hug, and Alfred laughs into Dad's shoulder and asks, "Did ya miss me?"

"Of course, I did," Dad says grumpily before glaring at the little pouch of belly fat Alfred has gained since the last time he visited. "You haven't been eating well, obviously. It's a wonder you're able to tie your own shoes in the morning, Alfred."

"It's not my fault the school has got a crappy meal plan," Alfred defends himself before plodding into the house and dropping his bag in the foyer. He rushes into the living room, and furrows his brows when he catches sight of Matthew stretched out over the length of the couch. Then, he swivels around and turns to Dad again. "What did you do to poor Mattie? Look at him! He's a wreck. You were supposed to fix him."

Dad shakes his head and replies, "He's all right. He'll be well enough to attend his classes on Monday."

Alfred ignores Dad and drops down to his knees by the couch, one hand buried in Matthew's hair, ruffling it. "Aww, Matt. I'm sorry, bro. It's kinda funny though—you've got a pumpkin-face."

Matthew scowls. "Who're you calling pumpkin-face?"

"The swelling should be considerably better tomorrow," Dad consoles, shooting daggers at Alfred as well.

Alfred laughs again and playfully gives Matthew a light punch to the shoulder. "No ditching class for you, Matthew. It's a good thing I came over here to help you get rid of your boredom. I've brought a cool game my roommate lent me, and we've gotta test it out, but first—Dad? You got somethin' good to eat 'round here? I'm starving, and they didn't want to feed me on the plane—something about the flight being too short or whatever."

"You're going to empty the entire refrigerator by the time you leave here," Dad gripes, but he motions for Alfred to follow him into the kitchen a moment later.

* * *

All right, so maybe Matthew has missed Alfred as well, but only the teeniest, tiniest bit. After all, Alfred can be obnoxious, loud, irritating, and a thousand other unpleasant synonyms in the thesaurus, but he has his brotherly moments, and in those moments, he can be surprisingly considerate and thoughtful. He can lighten any tense situation with a smile and a dose of humor, and that's precisely what Matthew has been missing.

Papa returns from work as the kitchen table is being set, and when he sees Alfred, his eyes light up, and he hugs him as tightly as he possibly can, going on and on about how quiet and empty the house has been without him, and, _mon Dieu_ , when was the last time Alfred had a proper homemade meal?

"You're skin and bones, _mon chou_! Have they been starving you in those dorms?" Papa frets.

Dad scoffs and retorts, "Starving him? Francis, he's gained at least half a stone!"

"He's a growing man, Arthur. Don't deny him nourishment."

"See? Papa gets it," Alfred happily chimes, pleased at being fussed over. "I missed you, too, Papa."

"California is too far away from home. You need to visit more often," Papa continues, rubbing circles into Alfred's back before putting together a large plate of food for him. " _Bon appetit, mon lapin_."

Dad wants to keep snapping at them both, but he decides against it and goes about putting an assortment of steamed vegetables in the food processor for Matthew, creating a green mush. He puts a few heaping spoonfuls of the mixture on a plate along with some soft, extra-mashed potatoes. "See if you can manage to eat some of this, poppet."

Matthew's not looking forward to his dinner, considering it looks more like baby food than anything else, but he needs to increase his caloric intake, and so, he gives it a chance.

"How has the semester been going so far, Al?" Matthew asks in between sloth-paced bites.

"Pretty good, dude. I went to this awesome party last—" Alfred stops himself, looks innocently at Dad and Papa, and says, "I mean, I spend a lot of my time in the library now, since midterms are comin' up. My coding class is really easy, but they're makin' me take philosophy to fill my liberal arts requirement, and my professor is a tough grader. He took like fifteen points off my last paper for no reason. I'm just trying to get that solid B."

"Yeah, I always end up with at least one tough professor, too," Matthew relates. "You're still applying to that web design internship for the summer?"

"Yeah, I'm almost done. I just need one more letter of recommendation and—" Alfred pauses to flinch as he chews some broccoli, "—a copy of my transcript."

The slip-up doesn't escape Dad's notice—nothing ever escapes his notice.

"Is everything all right, Alfred?" Dad interrogates, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah, yeah, just hit a sensitive spot, is all."

"What sensitive spot? Your teeth hurt?"

"Nah, don't have a cow. It's just…"

"Yes? Go on," Dad prompts him.

"I just bit down the wrong way."

"Which means you have a toothache," Dad points out, raising an eyebrow. "I want to have a look at it after dinner."

"Dad, I'm fine, honestly."

"I'll be the judge of that."

Interest piqued, Matthew follows Alfred and Dad out of the kitchen and into the living room after he finishes eating. Dad has Alfred lie down on the couch, elevates his head with a throw pillow, and orders, "Open your mouth."

"No."

"Alfred," Dad growls, brandishing a penlight.

"You're gonna make it hurt."

"No, I just want to look."

"You can't make me! I'm an adult now! I don't consent to this!"

"An adult who continues to act like a child. Open your mouth."

"Noooo!"

"I won't allow you to have any of the ice cream in the freezer if you don't cooperate."

"You're so cruel!" Alfred whines, but he finally opens his mouth an inch.

"You can do better than that. Open all the way and tilt your head back."

Letting out another petulant whine, Alfred opens his mouth fully this time and mumbles, "I hate you."

"Hush," Dad chides, shining the light on Alfred's teeth with a glower. "Well, for starters, you have a cavity in one of your second molars… I know you don't want to hear this, but I can already tell that two of your wisdom teeth are growing in crooked, which is probably the source of your pain. I won't know the state of the other two until you get an x-ray done because they haven't erupted through the gums yet. However, I can tell you right now that you'll need to have at least two teeth extracted."

Dad switches off the light, and Alfred sits up, mortified. He pales and looks at Dad for a long moment before nervously rasping, "Haha, well, would you look at the time? I should head back to Cali first thing in the morning."

"Oh, no, you won't. You can go back to school _after_ your x-ray, and you'll be getting those teeth removed as soon as spring break begins," Dad instructs.

"You want to make me miserable, huh?"

"No, I want you to be healthy."

"I don't want to have a pumpkin-face like Mattie does. Besides, he has a higher pain tolerance than I do. I might _die_."

Dad clicks his tongue and squeezes Alfred's shoulder for moral support. "I know, which is why you'll be getting the maximum amount of nitrous oxide and novocaine. I won't be able to bear all of your endless whining otherwise."

Matthew can't hold back the semi-smug, semi-pitying smile on his lips. So Alfred didn't get away so easily with his dental health as he initially thought. He's going to have to suffer through this as well.

Now Matthew's the one feeling protective. He touches Alfred's arm and says, "You should just get it over with. It's not that bad."

"No, no, no, absolutely-freaking no way!" Alfred exclaims, running a panicky hand through his hair. "I can't do it. I'm not coming home for spring break. I'm never walking into this house again!"

Dad lets his stern demeanor fall and opts for a more soothing one. "I knew you'd be the more difficult one to deal with, as usual. If Matthew survived, you will as well."

"No! It's not happening."

"Alfred, part of adulthood means taking care of your medical needs."

"Then I don't ever want to be an old, crusty adult! I'll go back to being a kid without any wisdom or darned wisdom teeth."

"I'm afraid that's not an option."

It's déjà vu. Just a short while ago, Matthew was lamenting his own downward spiral into adulthood.

"Papa! Dad's trying to kill me!" Alfred howls.

"I am _not_. It's for your own good."

"Papa, save me!"

Unfortunately, Papa proves to be of little use in this situation because he shouts back, "Listen to your father!"

"You're getting an x-ray first thing in the morning, and I'll schedule the surgery in April," Dad announces, settling the matter. Then, he goes back to tending to Matthew by giving him the next dose of his ibuprofen and antibiotic.

Matthew tries to turn the tables and attempts cheering Alfred up by distracting him with a videogame. It seems to work, and Alfred isn't as sulky anymore. Instead, he becomes pensive.

"Matt? I'm not ready to face the real world."

Matthew presses an icepack to his jaw for the umpteenth time and mutters, "Me neither."

"Really? That's a relief. I guess we can complain together then, right?"

"Right. We can always just be young and dumb forever. That's how most adults are anyway."

"Yeah, don't get old without me, 'kay?"

"I won't."

"Will you come with me when Dad breaks my mouth?"

Matthew laughs and nods comfortingly, "Of course. That's what I'm here for."

"Did it hurt a lot?"

"No. You won't feel a thing when they get taken out."

"You swear?"

"I swear."

"Can we be dumb kids for the rest of the weekend?"

Matthew places a hand on the right side of his aching jaw, sighs, and finally smiles. "Yeah, Al. We can get away with it for now."

"M'kay, good. Oh, one last thing, Matt."

"Yeah?"

"Don't ever become a dentist. I can't handle two of you in the family."

"I heard that!" Dad suddenly shouts from the laundry room.

And they both laugh like the kids they still are.


End file.
